ISOLDA (_darkly_).
My mother's rede
I mind aright,
and highly her magic
arts I hold:--
Vengeance they wreak for wrongs,
rest give to wounded spirits.--
Yon casket hither bear.

BRANGÆNA.
It holds a balm for thee.--

(_She brings forward a small golden coffer, opens it, and points to
its contents_.)

Thy mother placed inside it
her subtle magic potions.
There's salve for sickness
or for wounds,
and antidotes
for deadly drugs.--

(_She takes a bottle_.)

The helpfullest draught
I hold in here.

ISOLDA.
Not so, I know a better.